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Morey Stettner writes The Young Curmudgeon blog for portsmouthnh.com. He’s the author of five books including SKILLS FOR NEW MANAGERS (McGraw-Hill) and THE ART OF WINNING CONVERSATION (Prentice Hall) and the editor of Managing People at Work (www.managingpeopleatwork.com).

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Try calling the New Hampshire DMV. The phone number: 271-2371.

If you reach a live human being, email me. I’ll send you some swag.

I spent two days fruitlessly trying to get through during normal business hours. All that ringing, yet no one picks up.

Finally, someone picked up--a recording of someone. The friendly female voice confirmed that I reached the NH DMV. Then she added, “No one can take your call now.”

No way to leave a message. No touch-tone options. No suggestion to send an email. It was a recording that offered nada.

Your only recourse is to hang up and wonder if it’s fairer to blame Gov. Lynch or John J. Barthelmes. He was appointed by Gov. Lynch to run the NH Department of Safety. The DMV falls under his purview.

According to the state website (http://www.nh.gov/safety/commissioner/index.html), Commissioner Barthelmes graduated from the FBI National Academy. Sir, did the FBI teach you to make it impossible for callers to report a crime?

If you live and drive in the Seacoast, you’ll eventually trek to Dover Point’s DMV office to renew your license. My advice: Shower first with deodorant soap. Coast, Irish Spring, maybe Dial.

That 35-square-foot room is so cramped with people standing and waiting that you feel like you’ve stepped onto a New York City subway car. Forced intimacy is fine when you live in Manhattan and enjoy world-class museums and Central Park splendor. But in laid-back New Hampshire, why cram dozens of people into a space that would barely fit five tuna cans?

Is it too much to ask that bureaucracies function at a C level (or maybe B-)? Here’s a better question: You know those eternally happy people who whistle all day and smile at everyone and seem to drink in life with their positive attitude and love of sunrises and moonbeams? Well, how do they cope when they can’t get through to 271-2371?

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Morey Stettner writes The Young Curmudgeon blog for www.portsmouthnh.com. He's the author of SKILLS FOR NEW MANAGERS (McGraw-Hill) and THE ART OF WINNING CONVERSATION (Prentice Hall) and editor of Managing People at Work (www.managingpeopleatwork.com).

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All you can eat.

At Downtown Pizza in Portsmouth (a.k.a. the Gas Light), you can consume pizza without limits from 11:30 to 2:00 every weekday. For $7.25, choose from among five or six pizza varieties, greasy garlic sticks and a vat of gloppy mac ‘n cheese.

They throw in free soda!

There’s something so 20^th century about this meal. It’s like stepping back in time. No food pyramid. No obesity epidemic. No worries.

The basement dining area includes an aquarium that you can admire while you gorge. Those fish may be enjoying their pellets, but they aren’t fat and happy like us.

Before you salivate onto your keyboard, here comes the bad news. You’re in a dark basement. The blaring music is so loud and grating that you yearn for Muzak at McDonald’s. And then there’s the quality of the food.

The pizza = typical buffet fare. You learned that equation in high school geometry.

I see from the restaurant’s website (www.portsmouthgaslight.com/pizza_landing.cfm) that the Rotary Club awarded it for “best cheese” in 2008 and “best specialty” in 2007. Well, I’ve been to a Rotary Club luncheon. While Rotarians do fine work in the community, they evaluate food with the same standards that jailors use to evaluate thread count for inmates’ sheets.

The mac ‘n cheese was so yellow that Dorothy would’ve gladly leapt into it and followed it home to Kansas. It was a color I hadn’t seen in food since 1978.

I was tempted to write ALL ORGANIC on the blackboard that greets arriving customers. As a tribute to Allen Funt, I’d hide a camera and catch everyone’s expression as they scrutinized the “organic” platters of sustainable nourishment bathing under heat lamps.

I didn’t see salad among the buffet items. When I asked the server what gives, he told me that the restaurant plans to lower the price of the buffet to $5.99 while adding a choice of salad, beer or cheesecake for a buck or so more. That’s so 21^st century—letting us customize our lunch. Yet I have a sinking feeling that 5% will opt for salad and the other 95% will struggle to decide between beer and cheesecake. 

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Morey Stettner writes The Young Curmudgeon blog for portsmouthnh.com. He is the author of SKILLS FOR NEW MANAGERS (McGraw-Hill) and the editor of MANAGING PEOPLE AT WORK (www.managingpeopleatwork.com).  

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I’m a grudging curmudgeon. I wake up in the morning thinking, “I love people!”

Staying positive for a sec, October marks one year since I ditched an awful Portsmouth gym and joined Planet Fitness.  With its low price, hard-working employees and 1,000 TVs, PF delivers. (Hey, Federal Trade Commission: I did not receive any freebies from Planet Fitness. But if they gave me a treadmill for home, I’d accept and write a really nice thank-you note.)

In the 11 years I went to my old gym, it suffered through an ownership change that left it overstaffed (with lazy, vacant employees who played solitaire on their PCs) and ineptly managed. The air conditioning failed for five months in mid-2008. The place doubled as a sweat lodge but lacked drumming and chanting.

I complained (politely but with audible sighs). The gym’s owner couldn’t care less, blaming the landlord while providing a tiny oscillating fan in the corner of a cavernous room.

Planet Fitness employees, by contrast, never stop cleaning. They sweep, they mop, they inspect every inch of the place. They climb up on rickety ladders to dust TVs dangling in midair. The toilets flush with reassuring vigor, leaving you basking in sparkling institutional cleanliness that I normally associate with a hospital.

My one complaint is the locker room. Way too cramped! Like Woody Allen, I prefer not to undress in front of men of my gender. And you never know whom you’ll run into.

Last December, my Rabbi asked me for advice about publishing a book. He was about to leave Portsmouth for a new job in Florida. When a naked Rabbi asks you for a favor in a locker room, you say yes. Then you vow to reassess religion.

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Morey Stettner writes The Young Curmudgeon blog for portsmouthnh.com. He’s the author of five books including SKILLS FOR NEW MANAGERS (McGraw-Hill) and THE ART OF WINNING CONVERSATION (Prentice Hall) and the editor of the popular newsletter Managing People at Work (www.managingpeopleatwork.com).

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While standing at the corner of South and Middle Street yesterday, I watched two drivers in a row toss cigarette butts onto the street. Both drivers were obese. (I’m not judging, just reporting.)

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You know what’s sad? Enjoying the Seacoast’s best pancakes in a scenic waterfront setting—yet still leaving the restaurant in a huff.

At Fresh Local Bayside, you put up with the sporadic service (will they bring the promised bread basket?) and overpriced menu. Why? You like the local angle--and you see how hard the staff works. They race around like teen drivers.

You’re so happy to sit there, doing business with local people serving local food with locals gabbing at the next table, that you barely flinch when an omelet ($8.75) and three blueberry pancakes ($12) cost $20.75. At least tax is included. The menu says so.

The check comes. The total jumps from $20.75 to $22.62 with no explanation. The server says, “We charge 9% meals tax.”

“But the menu says taxes are included,” I protest with a smile. (A local love fest demands local politeness.)

The server mumbles something about how when NH raised its meals tax to 9%, the restaurant didn’t change its menu. That makes no sense.

Before I can formulate a response, she’s long gone. So I cough up the extra amount, leave a 16% tip and vow never to return.

* * *

Idling Alert: A Blue Star Taxi driver parks on Lincoln Ave. and starts eating lunch in his idling car. I wait seven minutes and then signal for him to roll down his window.

“Can you stop idling? It pollutes and wastes gas.”

He nods and drives away, perhaps to idle around the block. 

You’d think on a sunny 74-degree day he would want to eat outside. No, he’d rather dine at the wheel while burning fuel.

The question isn’t why I’m a curmudgeon. It’s why aren’t you?

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Morey Stettner writes The Young Curmudgeon blog for portsmouthnh.com. He’s the author of five books including SKILLS FOR NEW MANAGERS (McGraw-Hill) and THE ART OF WINNING CONVERSATION (Prentice Hall) and the editor of the popular newsletter Managing People at Work (www.managingpeopleatwork.com). 

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When you stroll through Market Square, you’re surrounded by such charm. And motorcycles.

The riders don’t just park, shop and drive away like normal people. They rev up. Loudly. Then they rev up again. Loudly.

Why can’t they just buy a sweater at Serendipity or grab a birthday card at Warner’s and get the heck home?

Not that I’m a role model (although, come to think of it, a world filled with people like me wouldn’t be half bad), but I choose to have fun by, say, reading junk mail or using hotel bathrooms. I don’t sputter around with an eardrum-splitting vehicle that lets me pretend I’m a free-spirit Easy Rider when I’m really a drone like everyone else.

There are two kinds of Americans: the Problems and the Solutions. The Solutions volunteer at homeless shelters, vote intelligently in elections and enjoy one of the thousands of quiet recreational activities favored by John Muir. The Problems are [guess who?].

Years ago, I interviewed the chief executive of a large motorcycle company. The topic wasn’t the inherent obnoxiousness of his products, but I couldn’t help myself. I asked, “Why do so many motorcyclists rev their engines repeatedly? Don’t they want to get going rather than sit on their bikes twisting their wrists and going deaf?”

He claimed I didn’t understand, that I wasn’t part of the “brotherhood.”

I’m not part of the brotherhood. I wouldn’t want to join any club that would have me as a member. And I wouldn’t want to join any club that wouldn’t have me as a member.

I just want to join a club that doesn’t ride motorcycles.

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Morey Stettner writes The Young Curmudgeon blog for portsmouthnh.com. He’s the author of five books including SKILLS FOR NEW MANAGERS (McGraw-Hill) and THE ART OF WINNING CONVERSATION (Prentice Hall) and the editor of the popular newsletter Managing People at Work (www.managingpeopleatwork.com).

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I just returned from a B&B with no hot water in the shower. When I told the proprietor, he looked at me like I insulted his daughter.

“We’ve never had a problem with that shower,” he declared. “It’s good as new.”

How do you respond to that?

“Obviously, it’s not good as new,” I should’ve said. “A new shower has a hot water handle that’s more than a cruel tease.”

Instead, I said, “Oh.”

He growled and walked away. No apology. No promise to look into it. Nothing.

It reminds me of how supermarket cashiers respond when I point out I was overcharged for an item in my shopping cart. After a lengthy price-check confirms I’m right, they sigh, delete the inflated price and enter the correct one.

No apology. No promise to look into it. Nothing.

“You may want to fix that so it doesn’t happen to others,” I helpfully say.

If I’m lucky, they grunt in acknowledgement. But they rarely dignify my suggestion with an audible response.

Customer service training programs are readily available: online self-study tutorials, audio conferences, seminars at Doubletree. Why don’t executives invest $50 to educate their employees?

Speaking of Doubletree, I will never go there again. After a debacle of a stay at the Jersey City Doubletree in April, I wrote a letter detailing my complaints.

No apology. No promise to look into it. Nothing.

No reply, even!

I dream of Peavey’s. Bring back that kindly man who helped me with all my hardware needs like I was his nincompoop son.

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Perhaps you’ve noticed the sorry state of peaches lately. They’re terrible.

You would think supermarkets would reject these mealy globs of disappointment.  But instead, they sell ‘em at $1.79 a pound with a straight face.

I’d like to spy on the produce manager when he decides what to foist on an unsuspecting public.

“Sure, I’ll sell these things,” he muses. “They look like peaches. They have the same color and texture as peaches. They taste like dental plaster, but we won’t offer in-store samples.”

If I had a spine, I’d bring the desiccated peaches to the market and present them indignantly to the woman (it’s always a woman) at the customer service desk. She’d give me my money back, but I’d walk out of there feeling like one of those cranky 85-year-olds.

I’m not quite there yet.

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Morey Stettner writes The Young Curmudgeon blog for portsmouthnh.com. He’s the author of five books including SKILLS FOR NEW MANAGERS (McGraw-Hill) and THE ART OF WINNING CONVERSATION (Prentice Hall) and the editor of the popular newsletter Managing People at Work (www.managingpeopleatwork.com).

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Some local organizations hosted a healthcare forum at the Portsmouth library last night. We learned that the U.S. spent $2.4 trillion on healthcare in 2008 with relatively little to show for it.

As I’ve learned from attending campaign appearances of U.S. presidential candidates, there are three types of questioners at these events: the smart and informed, the earnest but not well informed and the Zany Zealots.

Let’s focus on the ZZs.

One guy last night insisted there was no problem with the uninsured in America. To prove it, he asked for a show of hands on how many of us were uninsured. When only a couple of hands went up, he concluded, “See, it’s not a problem in this country.”

Another guy, a self-proclaimed Dartmouth grad, criticized any reform that funds abortions and gives healthcare to “illegals.” 

You know how some people write letters to the editor, express outrage at something they read in the publication and conclude, “Please terminate my subscription”?

When I hear ZZs speechify (they never ask questions), I want to say, “Please terminate my membership in the human race.”

To spot ZZs at your next community forum, look for folks who dress inappropriately (why’s that guy in a coat ‘n tie on an 85-degree day?), mutter and whisper constantly to anyone within earshot and--when it’s their turn to ask a question--refer to reams of note cards.

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